


leave the war with me

by stellaviatores



Series: after [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: (don't worry he gets better), Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 00:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15424746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatores/pseuds/stellaviatores
Summary: It's been two months since Hugh died and Paul is being cleared for service. At least, he's trying to be.





	leave the war with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nerdqueenenterprise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdqueenenterprise/gifts).



> title from [london grammar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnmeYiJcXPw)
> 
> for [rav](http://shroom-boi.tumblr.com), bc she's great at ~~nagging~~ encouraging me

Dr Calpurnia Garland has more letters following her name than Paul does, which is saying something. Her office is small but homely, windows facing the west, and Paul imagines this space would relax people - except he’s not people. He’s not even sure if he’s completely human anymore.

“You are,” Dr Garland clarifies, crossing her ankles. The PADD on her lap has gone dark from idling but she doesn’t seem to have noticed. “You’re still classified as human, Lieutenant, and even if you weren’t, we’d still be having this conversation.”

Paul feels a muscle in his jaw involuntarily twitch. “I think I’ve said enough,” he replies. He’s been sitting ramrod straight in this nondescript armchair for close to thirty minutes and the nausea lapping at his throat threatens to spill over any moment now.

Dr Garland purses her lips, the smallest hint of irritation seeping through. “I can’t clear you for service without a thorough assessment.” She taps her PADD, illuminating the screen, and flicks through her notes. “I noticed you didn’t fill in the last page on the form.”

It’s not a question. Paul doesn’t treat it like one. The silence between them grows, leaching into the air like carbon monoxide; if one of them doesn’t break it soon they’ll both choke.

“Tell me about him.”

Paul blinks. “What?”

“Tell me about him,” Dr Garland repeats, placing emphasis on the final word. Paul’s cheeks begin to heat and the tell-tale static that’s been buzzing around his head for months now increases exponentially as she continues. “I believe Dr Culber was assigned to the USS _Shelley_ before he requested a transfer to the _Discovery_. Dr Hinata was sad to see him go; she wrote in her transfer report that -” Garland scrolls down and laughs, “ - ‘Pollard owes me one’. He was a really special guy.”

“Yeah,” Paul manages to whisper, “he was.” He takes a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his face. “Are we done here?”

Garland looks up from her PADD, eyes soft. Paul has seen that exact expression more times than he can count in the last few weeks - from doctors, from colleagues, from the bartender he accidentally spilled his life story to after a few rounds - and honestly, it’s become boring. Dull. _Patronising_.

“Paul,” Dr Garland says, dropping the professional facade. “I want to help you. You can fill out this last page, or we can talk about him. Whichever is easier for you right now.”

“What’s easier for me is going back to _Discovery_ and continuing my work,” Paul snaps. It’s half the truth, anyway; Starfleet has seized all his research and forbidden him from connecting himself to the drive but he can still work. If he can still work, then he’s okay. If he’s okay, then nobody needs to talk about Hugh - full stop, no questions asked.

Except Garland is the only psychiatrist he’d willing to speak to and he knows full-well that she has the power to excommunicate him from Hugh’s world once and for all.

He exhales slowly, gathering his thoughts and shoving them into some semblance of order. “He was...annoying.” A tiny smile tugs at his lips and, exhausted from keeping everything tucked inside, he lets it bloom. “Yeah, annoying.”

Garland doesn’t even react. “How so?”

“He got up every morning at five, even when he didn’t have an early shift. He left his shit all over my desk. He had this - I don’t know, habit? This habit of throwing towels on the bathroom floor instead of hanging them like a normal person and,” Paul scoffs, “God, he was so petty. You know, one time I’d just finished my shift and he….”

The words, all lined up and ready to launch, falter. His tongue stutters and a wave of shame crashes over his lungs, forcing the air from them. Garland’s sitting there, practically carved from marble, watching curiously as Paul struggles to regain some composure. It’s gone, though; the moment he met Hugh Culber it had disappeared and there was no way he was getting it back now, not with Hugh gone.

“Shit,” Paul chokes. He can’t remember when his hands began shaking but they are, trembling like the last winter leaves on his tense thighs. His uniform, which had been like a second skin for some time now, feels too tight, too rough, too much for his body to handle. Dr Garland is saying something to him, gentle and light, and all Paul can hear is the rush in his ears that sounds a lot like Hugh’s neck snapping.

Two days after arriving in Paris a courier knocked on Paul’s door and gave him the last will and testament of Hugh Julián Culber y Gomez. There a holo-recording, of course - standard across all divisions since the Battle of the Binaries - and Paul didn’t even have to open it to know what he would say. The case didn’t give him a choice, though; eventually the incessant beeping became too much to ignore and Paul pressed his hand against the screen, opening the container.

Nestled in the folds of Hugh’s college hoodie was a smaller box covered in velvet. Hugh’s torso, constructed out of light, hovered above and sighed. “I guess if you’re seeing this it means I’m gone,” he said, “and I’m sorry, Paul, I really am, because if you get the rest of my will you’ll know I was an idiot and should have said something sooner. It’s just -” holo-Hugh glanced off to the side, “- I can’t find the right time. You’re not acting like yourself lately and - no, you know what?” He shook his head. “You’re never going to get this anyway. I should be nagging you about making one of these. This was a stupid idea. Computer, end -”

The holo spluttered out, leaving Paul alone. His temporary quarters were situated just above Paris HQ and distantly he could hear doors hissing shut, elevators rising, people chatting. All of it - the room, the city, the universe - felt so far away, almost as if he were looking at the world through glass. The only real thing in existence was the ring box in his hand and the depths of loneliness that had taken up residency in his chest.

“Lieutenant!” Garland says sharply, dragging Paul back to the present. He jerks back in his seat, sweating profusely, his heart trying to make a mad leap from his ribcage. “Lieutenant, you’re having a panic attack. I want you to listen to me. Focus on my voice.”

 _Focus?_ Paul frowns behind the glass. _I am focusing._

What comes out of his mouth is closer to a wheeze and, not for the first time, he wonders if this is a dream - or worse, the network pulling him back in.

Something - Garland’s hand, the most stable thing for miles - lands on Paul’s shoulder and rubs circles across his jacket. “Breathe in for eleven and out for seven,” she instructs. Paul balks at the idea of blindly obeying but there’s a part of him, the sixteen year old who went to CBT religiously, that complies without question.

 _In_ \- Hugh’s lips pressed to his stomach, Hugh’s hands running over his body, Hugh’s breath hot against the crux of his hips and thighs.

 _Out_ \- Paul has a medal buried in his suitcase that he’ll never be able to get rid of.

 _In_ \- Hugh’s grin, Hugh’s laugh, Hugh’s face when he’s so in love it hurts.

 _Out_ \- Paul gave a eulogy at the KIA service and didn’t mention him once.

“There we go,” Garland murmurs. Reality is creeping back to him in inches like sunlight touching new ground. He swallows unevenly and opens his eyes, counting back from ten until the shakiness in his limbs dissipates. Garland is kneeling before him, the precise lines of her uniform thrown off by thoroughly unregulated concern, and something else sprouts in Paul’s chest, a bastardised mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. She catches his gaze and anchors it steady. “It’s okay, Lieutenant.”

It’s not, but he’ll take what he can get and run with it. “Sorry,” he says, voice cracked and brittle. “I guess I’m not going to be cleared any time soon.” There’s something implicit there, a question he can’t put words to, but Garland answers it anyway.

“Not yet,” she says, “but you will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://stellaviatorii.tumblr.com)


End file.
